


The Agony of The Feet

by Crash1969 (autoerotic)



Category: Crash (1996)
Genre: Foot Fetish, Multi, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-05
Updated: 2020-10-05
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:15:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26845006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/autoerotic/pseuds/Crash1969
Summary: I can't wait for everyone else in this fandom to shoot me right between the eyes and put me out of my misery.
Comments: 7
Kudos: 3





	The Agony of The Feet

**Author's Note:**

> "Why are we still here? Just to suffer?" - Albert Einstein

It started with a joke that Helen made, a simple poke of fun, wry banter. Rather than a glass of wine, she poured half a bottle into a mug. I’d never seen someone do that in my entire life, but she drank the whole thing in what seemed like under five minutes. I was high as a skyscraper, staring at the television where footage of Vaughan’s old show played. I licked my lips.

“I think Vaughan’s a foot guy,” Helen said, her words slurried by the alcohol she slurped down. 

A foot guy. That was something that didn’t ring a bell to me, because I was blazing it and my brain was the equivalent of two tortoises humping. I looked at her, and she looked at me like she was about to crack up. She always seemed too serious, it was nice to see her laid back and loose and drunk.

“He’s a what?” I laughed. 

Helen snorted like I have never heard anyone snort before, a sound so violent that if it were a movie, it would deserve a restricted rating. “He likes feet.” 

It still wasn’t getting across to me. “Yeah, they make us walk,” I replied.

“No, I mean he,” she giggled, “I think he really, really likes feet.”

“What?”

“You know… Picture his lust over car crashes and replace the crashes with feet.”

**_Oh._ **

“You mean he’s a foot fetishist?” I mumbled, my eyes suddenly becoming alert. 

“Yeah. I think. I mean, he looks like one.” Helen went to drink from the mug of wine again but it was empty, so she was left disappointed. 

She was right. He did look like someone who would like a good whiff of a shoe, or to see some painted nails upon a woman’s foes. I was awestruck. It was like my brain was floating through a galaxy of knowledge, like I ate from the apple tree in the garden of Eden. I was god of this little world. Yet, I longed for more. I had no true confirmation. How was I going to make fun of him for sucking toes if I never saw him do it?

That didn’t exactly mean I wanted to see Vaughan with his mouth around stubby phalanges but I needed proof.

“Also, I think I saw him lick my stiletto heel the other day,” she continued. Her head went back and she heaved. “I’m going to vomit now, James.”

“Over the stiletto thing?” I inquired.

“No, I think I had too much wine and…” She was too slow to get up and, much like the head of a murky river, her mouth poured forth burgundy puke. I was too high to help, and I could only laugh.

That night it plagued me, it tore me apart. I looked to the sky for answers, I howled at the moon. When I finally managed to fall asleep, it haunted my dreams. Legions of bare feet floating through the air with an occasional interspersed Vaughan chasing after them. He followed them into the pits of hell and Beelzebub arose, extending one gorgeous, womanly leg with perfectly pointed pink-painted toes, and he stuck them directly into Vaughan’s mouth.

I woke up in a cold sweat.

I was in the kitchen in the morning, shaking hands hardly able to hold onto my black coffee that I sipped from a wine glass. Catherine looked concerned, she looked me in my weary eyes and asked me what was wrong. 

“It’s about Vaughan,” I croaked. 

“What about him? Is he alright?” Catherine quizzed. 

I shook my head. 

“Well, what happened? Did he finally crash and die?” 

“No, but Helen told me… She told me…” 

Catherine grasped my hand. “What did she tell you, James? What?”

“He’s a foot guy.”

She let go of my hand immediately. “Really? What? Wait, no, what? What do you mean he’s a ‘foot guy’?”

“He likes feet, in the same way as car accidents.”

The look she gave me was of disappointment and pity. “I’m very sorry to hear that, James.”

“Me too.”

I stopped for a pause.

“I have to talk to him about it.”

“Why?” Catherine asked.

“Well, honestly I don’t have any confirmation. I’m just going off of what Helen told me.” 

She nodded gravely. “Stage an intervention.” 

“I might.”

I looked over at the telephone, beckoning me to pick it up and dial the Seagraves to see if Vaughan was there. When he wasn’t, it was nigh on impossible for anyone to find his whereabouts. But, like a Christmas angel, sometimes he’d just turn up. That’s when the buzzer went off, and speak of the Devil. Over the intercom I heard his voice, husky and muttery as he asked if he could come up.

Catherine shook her head. “Please don’t let him in. It took me ages to clean off the semen he left on our couch from last time.”

“I have to know,” I said, walking towards the speaker.

“If he cums on any of the house plants, I’m divorcing you.”

I pushed the button down. “I’ll unlock the door,” I said to him. 

Before you could say ‘penis’, he appeared in front of the door. I stood back as he pushed past me. Catherine watched him get a little too close to a potted fern and she glared at me. If I could telepathically mind link with her, I would have told her I was certain he wasn’t going to splooge on the fronds. On my second thought, anything was possible with him, and who was I to deny him the pleasure?

But I wasn’t going to talk about emissions gracing the leaves of a flower, I had bigger feet to fry.

Fish.

I definitely meant fish.

“I have a question for you, Ballard,” Vaughan said to me, rubbing his greasy hands together. “It’s about my new show.

“Oh? What’s on your mind?” I asked.

“Remember when I said that Jodie Foster would make a good Jayne Mansfield?”

Yes, I remembered. That was on the Night of the Anus. I think I was trembling. Jodie Foster never would have fit the part, and she was far too famous to recruit for an informational television show. My mind devolved into wondering what her feet were like. I was appalled at myself. It wasn’t for my sake, I was thinking along the lines of his preferences.

“I do,” I replied.

“I think I would rather have Demi Moore.”

Another very big name, and I didn’t know where he imagined we’d get the budget for any of these people. “I’ll see what I can do,” I said.

Vaughan looked pleased. I watched as he bent down, curled fingers around his laces, undid them, and kicked his shoes off. I almost had a heart attack, I could feel my body’s core temperature rising. Vaughan. Feet. Vaughan. Feet. There was nothing I could do to get my mind off the subject. 

I can’t rationalize to anyone why these thoughts plagued me. I wished I could look in the mirror for a moment, maybe punch my reflection like an action movie protagonist. It started out with a joke, how did it end up like this?

It was only a joke.

It was only a joke…

Before I could stop myself, it came out.

“Helen told me you’re a foot fetishist.”

Time slowed, almost to a stop. Vaughan looked me over, head to… Toes. My toes. I was red as a beet, my eyes were fixed on him. He said nothing at first, he said nothing for ten seconds, and then an additional ten. 

And then...

“Helen told me _you’re_ a foot fetishist.” 

My jaw dropped. “What? No. What? Did she really?”

“Yeah. She was drinking and she turned to me, and she told me you liked feet.”

“She’s been going around saying this about everyone, then. I can’t believe it,” I murmured.

It was like solving a Scooby Doo mystery, utterly pointless. What could I say? Here, I had accused an innocent man of toe gobbling, of sole searching. I had been duped. Have you ever seen a romantic comedy where someone lies to set two people up on a date? This was like that, except actually not at all. Helen was a mastermind, playing both sides.

Vaughan looked at me.

And I looked at him.

And he looked at me.

And I looked at him some more.

And then he said:

“James. We’re turned on by car crashes, why are feet weird to us?”

This was a question I was unprepared for, out of the left field. It was like reliving my first crash. I didn’t want to introspect on it, but he was right. We were throwing stones in a glass house. Here the world would never understand those who basked in the raw sexual energy of a wreck, and we were judging others for the petty crime of foot fetishism. 

“I can’t even begin to explain it,” I replied.

He shrugged. “Did you really think I was a foot guy?”

“Helen had me convinced. I was high at the time. You thought I was a foot guy? Do I look like one to you?”

“No, Ballard.”

“Thank Jesus.” 

And then both of us, by some unprecedented, unfathomable miracle said, at the same time:

“What if Helen likes feet?

I put my hand over my heart. “It must be the case, she wanted to test the waters, to see if either of us were foot guys.”

“She wanted her toes sucked, not her tits, this whole time...:”

Vaughan narrowed his eyes, but mine wouldn’t do that, they were round as the moon.

Catherine appeared, having heard us from the room over. “You’re both weird.”

“You’re the one who has a framed photo of my anus on your nightstand,” Vaughan responded.

“You’re the one who took it for me.”

“Good point.”

And then the author of this fanfic popped a few benzos and passed out. She woke up the next day and can’t remember why she started this in the first place. If she ever reads the word foot again she’ll disembowel herself and the ghost of J.G. Ballard walked out a long time ago. That’s the end of the story.

_Lovingly yours,_

_Tootie G. Ballard (Crash1969) XOXO Gossip GIRL_

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading this little parody fic. Check out my nonexistent Patreon, subscribe to my nonexistent YouTube channel, and hit that like button or cooties or what ever they're called on here.
> 
> I'm going to go commit die now.
> 
> Peace out!


End file.
